


The Craving

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair and Jim both do some soul searching concerning the status of their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Craving

## The Craving

by Sharilyn

Not mine, no money, just playing   


After revealing Blair's inner monologue   
concerning his feelings for Jim, I had to give Jim his turn, as well!   


This story is a companion piece to One Black Tree - Jim's POV   


* * *

Was it not time? The way first morning waits for sunrise I wait for you, pale with accomplished night; like a packed theater, I coalesce into one great face so that nothing of your high central entrance will escape me. O as a gulf hopes into the Open and out of the upstretched lighthouse   
casts shining spaces; as a riverbed in the desert craves from the pure mountains that rush, still heavenly, of rain,-- as the prisoner, standing, longs for the answer of the one star to come in through his innocent window; as a man rips the warm   
crutches away so they can be hung on the altar, and lies there and without a miracle will never rise: so I shall writhe my way, unless you come, toward some end. I crave only you. Must not the crack in the pavement, when, in its wretchedness, it feels grass-surge: must it not will the entire spring? Look, the _terrestrial_ spring. Does not the moon require the strange star's great shining in order to find itself mirrored in the village pond? How can the least thing happen, if the future's fullness, all of time's great sum, does not move toward us? 

\---from "Pearls Roll Away," by Rilke 

* * *

Sweet God, I can't lose him. I know that now; I feel him in every microbe of my body, breathe him in with every breath, sense him all around me, all through me, as my heart counts out the beats of months, weeks, days, hours, cataloguing each vast, ticking second of the timepiece of my life and realizing exactly when it was that I first began to _live._

The only question left to me, the only one that needs an answer now is the question _why;_ why the hell it's taken my mind so long to embrace what my heart has known for years. I don't care anymore about excuses, about feeble justifications; I only care about Sandburg. And me. Together. The both of us. And not together like we have been, nothing so mild and dull as that; not just partners at work, not even just Sentinel and Guide, though that _has_ formed the basic groundwork for all that we've become to each other. 

No; it's time now to remove the kid gloves, to stop all this grousing and back-biting and pointless sniping at one another and to acknowledge the giant pink elephant crouched in our living room. I'm sick and tired of tiptoeing around the bastard, pretending it doesn't exist, pretending that neither one of us really cares how fucking mean-spirited we've both been to each other lately--treating each other like shit all because of fear, the fear of facing the truth and corralling that damned elephant before it tramples the both of us into the ground. But if anyone deserves trampling, it's me more than him; _I'm_ the one who's been the biggest bastard in all this, the one who's done his best to destroy a fantastic friendship. 

I'm the goddamned king of repression, or so Sandburg says; and I guess he's got a point. It's never been easy for me to let people get too close, never easy to drop my guard and let anyone slip underneath it to the heart and soul of me...and with Blair it wasn't supposed to be any different. My original purpose in looking him up was merely a last-ditch effort on my part to solve the problem I was having with zoning out; I needed him to help me deal with all this Sentinel confusion, and that was supposed to be the be-all and end-all of the whole relationship between us. That much is old news, that much is admissible. 

But then something else began to happen, something that seemed to spiral more and more quickly out of my control the longer Sandburg was in my life. Even as his input and guidance helped me to attain control over my senses, his presence in my loft, on my job--in pretty much every damned aspect of my life--began to overwhelm me more and more, his nonstop energy and volubility spinning me crazily round and round till I no longer knew which way was up. And I resented him for that, resented the hell out of him. Who the hell did he think he was, storming into my peaceful, orderly existence like some wild-haired, tropical tsunami; who the fuck ever asked him to insert himself with such stubborn insidiousness into every facet of my being? It got to the point that no matter where I turned, no matter who else I was with or how far away I might be from him physically, Sandburg was always still _right there_ with me, his unique energy signature seemingly embedded in my very soul. And I decided I wanted it _out_ of me, wanted _him_ pushed firmly away to a safe distance again. 

So I began a slow, deliberate campaign over these past few weeks to freeze him out, to shut him out of every part of my life that didn't absolutely require his presence and input; at first it was subtle, an almost imperceptible gradation from being too close for comfort to being more and more detached and distant. I figured if it was done carefully, methodically, sort of like a weaning process, than neither one of us would be all that bothered by it; no harm, no foul, right? I mean, I had a damned life _before_ Blair Sandburg, and I told myself I wasn't thrilled with the notion of him breathing down my neck for every minute of the next forty years of it. I told myself that he was becoming way too clingy, too possessive of my time...it was for his own best good, in honor of his own much-needed liberation, that I was forcing him so relentlessly away from me. It was the best thing for the both of us, I told myself. But it was all a lie; I was _so_ damned wrong. Deep down, where the demons of brutal honesty have fired up their hellish little pitchforks in gleeful anticipation of ramming all of them right up my lying ass, the truth leers out at me, challenging me to do something about it before it's all too late. I thought I was in charge, but it's all just been illusion. I told myself that it was just because I like things to be organized, tidy; I like the stability of feeling I'm in control, of feeling strong and secure and confident in who and what I am. Gaining my sentinel senses almost ended that fine illusion of self-control and self-sufficiency I've carried most of my adult life, and letting Blair in close to what I saw as a shameful weakness in my character was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Freaking out over the realization of just how quickly and inexplicably he insinuated himself into almost every part of my world was, I now see, merely a knee-jerk, panic reaction to the truth that my heart knew almost from day one but was never allowed to speak. 

I tried; I really tried to drive him away, self-righteously telling myself it was done to give him back his life before I could do what I'm about to do now, before there was no longer any escape for him...or for me. I tried, first through calm indifference, then bitchiness, then downright malice; and I came _this_ close to succeeding. Tonight, not even an hour ago, I pushed one time too many, opened my cruel, cutting mouth one time too often, driven to it by sheer terror, by the pure, undiluted desperation of need that surged through me with one absent, longing touch of my fingers to the back of Sandburg's neck. 

God, it wasn't supposed to happen like that; we were both walking on eggshells already, as uptight and as careful with each other as cats in a roomful of rocking chairs. I was angry with him, frustrated by his stubborn insistence on still seeing to it that I ate dinner, that my dials were turned to an acceptable level to stave off the migraine headache threatening behind my eyes. Godammit, how can he still _do_ that, still be so loving, so fucking decent and good, in the face of my overt callousness? I told myself it was shame that drove me to reach out suddenly, softly, as he brushed by me in the kitchen, shame and some grudging half-attempt at apology that made me glide my fingers along his nape, my senses drowning in the springy, luxurious abundance of his hair as it tickled the back of my hand, the pads of my fingers absorbing the unique texture of his skin, my nostrils cataloguing his scent as he startled and went momentarily stiff, his body trembling ever so slightly beneath my unexpected touch. 

Dear God, I crave his nearness, his gaze, his voice...just that one, brief stroking of skin to skin, body confronting body like two errant whispers of breeze on a scorching summer's day...oh, God, it was enough. Enough to bring insatiable need roaring to voracious life inside me, enough to stop my heart in my throat and steal the breath from my lungs. And even as I over-reacted in the very next instant, starting up a completely ridiculous, yelling argument that had Sandburg grabbing his ratty old jacket and tearing out of the loft as if all the hounds of Hell were after him...well, even then I knew I was well and truly fucked. Even then I knew that it would kill me if he left for good, that I couldn't-- _can't_ \--be without him. I know it now, know just what the panic inside me, the feelings of being smothered and tied and trapped, really mean; those feelings didn't come because Blair was too pushy, too close, too intrusive. No; they were defense mechanisms, shoddily constructed facades to hide the reality of the love, the longing, that was the _real_ culprit choking the life from me. Oh my God, what have I done; what will I do if Blair refuses to listen to me now, refuses to forgive me for the completely shitty way I've treated him these past few weeks? Fueled by something close to fullblown panic, I find myself snatching my own jacket and fumbling my arms into the sleeves as I slam my way out of the loft, determined to tear this town apart if necessary until I find him. There are several places he might go, a few trusted people he might run to for solace, for the comfort and support I've flatly refused to give him of late; maybe I'll start there, looking for him in the places he loves to go, with the people who have the sense to appreciate him for the amazing man he really is. Jesus, don't let him leave me, I find myself thinking desperately to myself as I step out onto the sidewalk in front of the loft, my senses automatically dialing up and zeroing in for even the faintest essence of Blair's unique energy signature. If I can just pick up his scent , his heartbeat, the unmistakable sight of his small, perfect body hunched against the growing chill of dusk as he trudges along, alone and despondent because Jim Ellison is the world's most supreme, clueless asshole... 

Oh, God, thank God...there must be a God, there _is_ a God...because I can sense Sandburg already, can hear very faintly (but oh God, so reassuringly) the steady thrub-thrub of his heartbeat, distant but growing measurably nearer. I imagine I can smell him, though he's downwind and still too far away for me to do that yet; I imagine touching him, tasting him, crushing him to me and never, ever letting him go...and as I force myself to stand waiting, every molecule in my body crying out to be with him, to show him just what an idiot I've been and just how vital he is to my life, to my soul...a familiar mop of curly hair appears at the very limit of my extended vision, his beloved head bobbing morosely above the turned-up collar of his jacket as he trudges along in the growing darkness. 

He can't see me yet, not with his average-Joe senses; and some residual stubbornness in my nature prods me to keep standing here, to make him come to me, to retain at least some small semblance of dignity and control in the face of this incredible wave of emotion welling up inside me. I can play it cool, utter some careless, off-the-cuff remark when he finally makes his way here to my little patch of the sidewalk, his expressive blue eyes squinting up at me through the gloom with something midway between peevishness and curiosity glittering wearily in their depths...Or I can do what my heart is urging me to do, what my feet, my arms, every single, trembling part of me, longs so wildly to attain; I can move my ass down this sidewalk, picking up speed as I go, my shoes pounding strongly on the concrete beneath me as my eyes zero in on his approaching form, my heart bleeding out mute, helpless love as Sandburg's intuition picks up on my presence, his head lifting first in puzzled wariness, then his eyes going huge and dark with astounded realization and a touch of pained misgiving as he halts abruptly several hundred yards away, frozen with indecision in the face of my mad, hurtling rush toward him. 

"Jim?--" I hear him begin, the sound of my name a thing of beauty and of pathos on his lips; he thinks something terrible has happened, that I zoned out in his absence or that maybe one of the gang from work has been hurt--Simon, or Rafe, or Henri, or Connor. I want to tell him that it's all right, that everything is going to be all right...but I have no breath left, no will, just this incredible, weak trembling in all my extremities as I skid to a chaotic halt before him and release my hooded gaze to devour every line, every angle, of his pale face tipped so uncertainly toward me in the gloom. 

"Jim, what?--" he begins again, his own hands shaking as he lifts them to reach for me, not knowing what is coming, fearful of the dark news I might reveal. But I won't have him suffer any longer because of me, won't tolerate either of us living even one second more in this horrible vacuum of distance and need. Before he can speak again, before any of the dozen questions seething behind his eyes can erupt from his mouth, I capture his hands in mine and bring them, trembling, in exquisite silence to my lips. My eyes never leave his as I press my mouth to his fingers, my lips caressing his knuckles, tasting the essence of all that he is, all that he means to me. Tears fill his eyes as I hold his stunned gaze with my own mute entreaty; and as one last, shaken "Oh, Jim..." trickles softly from his lips, I rub my cheek against his upturned palms and close my eyes in shattered gratitude to all the hosts of heaven as Blair enfolds me in his arms and crushes me, warm and safe and whole at last, to the wildly beating haven of his chest. 

* * *

End The Craving by Sharilyn: sharilyn2@earthlink.net

Author and story notes above.

  
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